Page 31 of Milo
He sounds grim. I lean back against the counter, running my fingers gently over the wood, tracing the grain that glows in the soft light. He clears his throat and I look up and remember that we were in the middle of a conversation. “I like drinking,” I say dreamily.
“Why?” He looks concerned as if he thinks I’ve suddenly developed alcoholism.
“Because I speak better when I’m drunk.” The kettle boils and I go towards it, but he pushes me gently back. I look down at that big, callused hand on my chest and swallow hard.
“I’ll make tea,” he says. “I don’t think it’s wise for you and boiling water to be on anything other than sipping terms.”
I settle back against the counter and try to fold my arms across my chest. It takes longer than it should but finally I manage it. “You’re not the boss of me,” I say peevishly, and he grins suddenly.
“No one is the boss of you, Milo. You’re gloriously intractable.”
I blink, my muddled brain trying to make sense of that. “I’m not,” I argue. “I’m very tract-tract … Whatever that fucking word is, I’m not it. I’m shy and a pushover.”
He pours water over the tea and the faint smell of peppermint reaches my nostrils. “You might be a bit shy. There’s nothing wrong with that, and a pushover you are certainly not.”
“Thomas pushed me over.” I laugh. “In more ways than one.”
He grips the side of the counter and closes his eyes. He appears to be trying to breathe deeply, and I poke his cheek carefully. Well, I mean to do it carefully, but I miss and get his eye.
“Motherfucker,” he hisses. “What was that for?”
“I didn’t want you to be sad.”
“So you decided to take my mind off it by gouging out one of my eyeballs?”
I shake my head and promptly wish I hadn’t done it when the room spins. “Don’t be such a baby. Although your eyeball felt horribly squashy.” I wipe my finger carefully on my trousers. “Ugh!” I laugh. “Something about you that is actually ugly. Yay!”
“What?”
I look up to find him watching me very closely. “Don’t be cross,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I’m not cross, sweetheart. Not at you, anyway.”
“Who are you cross at?” I sit up. “Is it at Sid the gardener because of the incident with the gazebo?”
“No,” he says slowly. His eyes sharpen. “But we should definitely discuss that further.”
I lean forward slightly, and some excess of gravity makes me keep going until my head thumps down onto my forearms. Cushioned, I look up at him. “Are you cross at Thomas?”
“Yes, still,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’d like to find him and shove his teeth down his throat.”
“He’s in Oxford,” I say idly and pop my head back up when he swears.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“He tells me.”
“How?”
I frown, racking my fuzzy brain and trying to think. “Letters. He used to message and email but I blocked his number, so now he writes to me because I can’t change where I live.” I pause. “Unless I move,” I say slowly and give up the fight against gravity by lowering myself to the ground where I prop myself up against the cabinet.
“No,” he says explosively, and I jerk in surprise. “Sorry,” he says, and before I can reply he comes swiftly over and crouches at my feet. I blink slightly because his eyes look very blue in this light. The creases at the side of them are so attractive and it’s only his eyes widening in surprise that makes me realise that I’m stroking his face. “Shit! Sorry,” I say, pulling back. “Bloody wine. I’m never drinking again.”
“No, don’t,” he says in a low voice, taking my hand and putting it back. “Touch me. I like it.”
“You like everything,” I say softly, stroking the hard cheekbones and feeling the roughness of his stubble under my fingertips skittering and catching on my skin and making me feel hot inside. “Menandwomen, they all love you.”
He seems to stop breathing. “And does that bother you?”
